Shamanism
by Lyra Silvertongue2
Summary: Take my hand. Hold fast, hold strong.Sequel to Snap Me Back Into Hell. DracoHermione. The road to recovery. Read and review, please!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is a sequel to my one-shot (which, as you can see, I could not resist continuing), _Snap Me Back Into Hell._ If you think that that fic is better as a stand-alone, you don't have to read this. However, if you want to read angsty, substantial Draco/Hermione goodness, by all means, keep reading. 

Disclaimer: Okay, we're all _well_ aware that it's not mine...

And now--let the show begin!

* * *

"Frankly, I'm amazed that he's still able to _speak,_" confessed Hermione. She was strung-out, having been unable to sleep the night before. Actually, she probably wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight, either. The resistance movement would be raiding another jail in a few hours time, and she would be needed for her skills in speaking to prisoners. Of course, it wasn't like she hadn't assured everyone that the psychology books she'd studied were readily available.

"The rest of the prisoners are still able to speak," Harry pointed out rationally. He, too, was on edge, but in an entirely different way than Hermione. Harry was itching to get back into the fight, to end this war once and for all. Voldemort's empire, as far as he was concerned, had to be taken out from the top, and Harry _was_ the one the prophecy proclaimed had to face Voldemort. "And they've had it just as bad as Malfoy."

Hermione rubbed a hand across her worried face, possibly to relieve some of the weariness etched there. "No, they haven't."

Puzzled, Harry asked, "What do you mean?"

"Visits once a day," Hermione informed him, sitting down on Gaoler Lincoln's desk. Harry had pulled her in here to discuss the current state of affairs, opting for the suitably-decorated office. Gaoler Parkinson's, next door, was covered in more pink than should have been allowed for a servant of the Dark Lord. "Jinxes and curses with each one."

Harry started. "Did Malfoy--?"

"No, he didn't tell me that, I learned it when the head gaoler was interrogated. However," said Hermione gravely, "Malfoy did tell me about _physical_ violence."

Harry gawped. "_Physical_ violence?"

"Apparently, they broke his arm. And I shouldn't be surprised if--"

Suddenly the door thudded open to reveal Ron in a full, flushing, red-headed rage. "What is _Malfoy_ doing _here?_" he demanded.

"Close the door, Ron, people are staring," said Hermione. Whereas Harry had jumped at Ron's entrance, Hermione had merely brought a hand up to rub her temple. To Harry's surprise, Ron shut the door behind him and inquired, a bit more quietly,

"What is _Malfoy_ doing _here?_"

"Serving his time for crimes against Lord Voldemort, obviously," said Hermione. No one flinched at the name--they'd all had far too much exposure to it to do that.

"But--what could _Malfoy_ have done against Voldemort?" said Ron. "From what I figured, they were best buddies."

"Call him Malfoy in here, Ron," said Hermione. She was looking past him, to the door, and, in her mind's eye, beyond, to the disheveled prisoner sitting quietly and being examined for medical problems. "But call him Draco to his face. He reacted very defensively when I called him by his surname."

"I don't know why he's here, Ron," said Harry, jumping in to answer Ron's question. "But he must of done something bad. He's been getting cursed every day," he informed him, darting a glance to Hermione to confirm this. She nodded.

"They probably just got sick of looking at his ferrety face," said Ron, with half a bitter smile.

"Now is _not_ the time for schoolboy grudges, Ron," admonished Hermione. "And I'm sure you'd feel the same if it'd been you in that cell and Malfoy dragging you out."

Ron was deprived of his chance to respond when there was suddenly a yell from beyond the door.

* * *

Draco looked at his surroundings, confused, while the red-haired woman looked up and down his arms, holding them out gently for inspection. This wasn't right. There was no world outside of Hell, he'd decided on that...long ago. There was no room for argument. No world outside of Hell.

Then where did the gaolers come from? queried a voice from deep inside him.

Nowhere, Draco told himself, filled with uncertainty.

As the red-haired woman carefully made her way across his face, occasionally swiping some dirt off with a thumb, Draco tried to puzzle it through. Hermione had told him to believe her, and he had. He'd trusted her--she hadn't kicked him at the last minute or anything--but then she'd left. _You'll_ _be safe here,_ she'd assured him, and left.

Draco still trusted Hermione, but he wasn't so sure about this red-haired woman.

Ginny had vowed never to think about what each prisoner went through--it hurt too much--and this one was no different. Instead of making them relive what they'd been through, she made it a point to keep up a friendly patter. This man wasn't as responsive as some had been in the past--last week there'd been one, who, at the first question, had proceeded to chatter away ceaselessy about his life before he'd been taken away, and refused to stop even when she was all done with the examination--but Ginny pressed on anyway. It was important to keep up a healthy atmosphere, so the patients themselves could flourish in it.

"You look vaguely familiar," Ginny informed the man, who held still as she searched through his thick, clumped hair for lice (Ginny had long ago lost her fear of bodily substances and the like). "But, then, nearly everyone I meet does. See, my mum's always had this habit of introducing me to nearly everyone in the wizarding world. Only daughter, you know, she tends to show me off. I swear I've met thousands of people. Of course, I only remember about thirty names--say 'ahh,'" she told him.

"Ahh," said Draco, shifting his eyes to continue his search for Hermione. _She'd come back,_ he told himself.

"But you really do seem familiar," continued Ginny. She often gave people the impression that she was a mother of some-odd children, but her looks never fitted the equation. The truth was, Ginny was in her early twenties, and quite attractive. It was only when she spoke to her patients that she seemed older. "You're about my age. Did you go to Hogwarts?"

This attracted Draco's attention. "'Er-ioee 'ehd 'Ohwarss," he tried to croak around the tongue compressor.

"You probably did," concluded Ginny. "I bet you were even in my year and I just forgot you. Oh, well. Take off your shirt, dear?"

Draco complied, but persisted in scanning the faces of the people around him. Other prisoners were being inspected by other people in brightly-colored robes, and there was a person with a clipboard going from the person to person. Everything seemed rather haphazardly arranged, though. And there was no sign of Hermione.

"Oh, dear, they really didn't feed you very well here, did they?" said Ginny sadly, remarking on Draco's protruding ribs.

Draco stopped looking around for a moment, considered, and shook his head.

"Well, we'll soon have you healthy, no need to worry," Ginny encouraged him. "Now I'm going to need to listen to your heartbeat."

Draco raised an eyebrow.

"Please, what do you think I am?" inquired Ginny, smiling. She muttered an incantation under her breath--Draco tensed for a moment--and leaned her ear a little closer to his chest. When she drew back, Draco relaxed and looked at her, forgetting about Hermione for a moment.

_She's nice,_ he was thinking. It was contrary to all he had experienced. Maybe he _was_ safe here.

"Now, the only thing that really worries me is this arm of yours--has anything happened to it?"

"Broken," Draco told her, then froze, looking at her suspiciously. She wasn't going to break it again, was she?

"How long ago?" asked Ginny, looking his arm over again. She poked at the place where it had been broken.

Draco shrugged.

Then it happened.

Reaching behind herself, Ginny pulled out her wand. She was only taking it out to fix the irregularity in his arm--but Draco didn't know that.

What Draco knew was a forever of pain, usually brought about by wands.

What Draco knew was instinct.

Right before he moved, Ginny caught the look in his eyes, and saw it was thousands of years old: the look of the hunted.

"NO!" Draco shouted, jumping back and knocking over his chair. He continued stumbling backwards, running into another prisoner, then a desk, and finally hitting the wall with his back.

* * *

Harry, Ron, and Hermione came charging out, holding their wands, expecting a gaoler broken loose, or perhaps an invasion of Death Eaters, or the Dark Lord himself--instead they saw a group of confused prisoners and MediWitches, and a very frightened Draco, growing slightly more panicked by the second and pressed against a wall.

Well, that's not _entirely_ true.

Harry and Ron saw a crazed, beastlike version of their teenage nemesis, on the verge of attack.

Hermione saw a frightened victim of years of abuse: a person in need.

Thumping her arms across her friends' chests to prevent them dashing forward, Hermione hurriedly handed Ron her wand and made a beeline for Draco. On seeing her, his fearful stance immediately softened, though his eyes still remained wide and frightened.

Touching Draco's shoulder, she caught his eyes, asking him silently, _Are you all right?_ Without words, he answered her, and she turned to Ginny, who was standing at the other end of the room, holding her wand, looking completely bewildered. "What did you do?" asked Hermione, a little more forcefully than was required.

"I was going to fix his arm," explained Ginny. "I just pulled out my wand, and--" She shrugged helplessly.

Staring intently at Ginny, Hermione paused, and said, "Can you teach me how to mend a bone, Ginny?"

* * *

Having no memory of ever really being glad of anything, Draco couldn't be glad that Hermione was back. He could, however, be satisfied. Everything was right with the world.

There. He'd said it. 'The world.' It existed now, he was sure of it, otherwise how would Hermione be holding his arm so gently now? And how could she be learning how to fix a broken bone from the red-haired woman? Of course, it could be that he'd gone off the deep end, and this was all an elaborate delusion he was having...

Draco was brought out of his thoughts when Hermione drew her wand. He jumped, but not as much as before, since she told him, "It's okay, I'm just going to fix it, all right?" Draco nodded slowly.

It was good to have someone to talk to, wasn't it? "Yes," Draco answered himself and Hermione.

And then it was done. Hermione said a funny little word and it was done. Didn't feel weird or hurt at all. Just--over with.

This required some thought.

* * *

After Hermione fixed his arm, she disappeared back the way she'd come with the red-haired man and the black-haired man. Draco was left alone with the red-haired woman, who Hermione told to "Just let him alone." That was fine with Draco. He needed to muddle through this.

There wasn't just Hell, he knew that now. He'd admitted it: there was a world. But just how far this world extended, he didn't know. He didn't remember. Why couldn't he remember? A person should be able to remember, shouldn't he? Maybe he'd ask Hermione later, when she came back. If she came back. No. When she came back. She'd already come back once, why wouldn't she again?

The question was...what was the question?

Nothing was working straight in Draco's mind. It didn't make sense.

What did he know for sure? Okay. Hermione existed. He existed. Hell existed. He couldn't go back to Hell. There was a future.

There was a future?

* * *

Draco didn't know how long it was until Hermione came back, but come back she did. Sitting down in front of him, she spoke. Draco drank in every word she said.

"We're going to be moving you." _Where?_ "There's a...a safehouse. You'll be able to rest there."

"Are you coming with me?"

Hermione paused, and glanced back at the two men she'd come in with. "Yes," she said to Draco.

"Good."

"Is there anything else you'd like to know?"

Draco thought, then shook his head.

"Then let's go," said Hermione, standing up.

"Now?"

"Yes," said Hermione. There was a dark cloak on the desk behind her. She unfolded it and draped it over his shoulders. It almost swallowed Draco up. "Well," said Hermione, glancing back at the two men again. They nodded at her. The black-haired one looked a little worried, and the red-haired one seemed angry. At least, that's what Draco thought, and he couldn't really be sure if he remembered what being angry looked like.

The two men left, and somehow Draco found himself being led down a dark passageway by Hermione. This was okay. Anything he did with Hermione was okay. But she seemed to be trying to stop him from looking at something to his right. Curious, he craned his neck to see.

It was the gaolers.

They were in two cells: a big group of them in one, and just one in the other. Draco twitched at the sight of Gaoler Lincoln's blond hair, and then stopped walking when he saw something in the other cell. A glint. It wasn't on water.

There was a man in that cell, rather tall and rotund, with short, dark hair. He was wearing the uniform of a gaoler--and something around his neck.

"What?" asked Hermione, darting her gaze from Draco to the gaolers. "What is it? What do you want?"

Draco raised a finger to point at the rotund man in the cell on his own.

Hermione's brow creased. "No...no, you can't have the guard."

"No," said Draco. "That's mine." He pointed more insistently.

"Sir," called out Hermione, after a few seconds' hesitation. "Come closer to the bars, please."

"I'll do nothing for you, Mudblood," spat the plump man. He'd obviously heard what they were talking about, clutching the glinting object to his chest.

_Mudblood._ Something stirred in Draco's memory.

"You will," said Hermione dangerously, drawing her wand. Draco forgot whatever it was, flinching away from the wand. He couldn't be too careful, around wands. Never knew what could happen--even if it _was_ Hermione. "What's around your neck?" she demanded of the gaoler-made-prisoner.

"It's mine," said the man protectively.

"No," declared Draco firmly. Still frightened of the wand, he huddled into the enormous cloak.

"_Accio,_" said Hermione, and Draco flinched once again. The glinting object escaped the man's grasp, flew through the bars, and into Hermione's hand.

Forgetting about the gaoler, Hermione held it, in her palm, closer to her face to see it. It was a silver ring, on a chain of the same metal. At the top of the ring the metal was formed to look like the head of a large cat--a cheetah, probably, Hermione thought. Or a leopard. There was black material in a few dents in the metal, and the ring was a little grubby. Hermione looked to Draco, putting away her wand. "This is yours?"

Draco nodded, eyes wide and glancing between Hermione and the ring. He remembered it from...somewhere...before Hell...there was a before Hell?

_It can't be anywhere worse than in the hands of that...bad man, _she thought, glancing back at the cursing gaoler. Hermione carefully placed the ring in Draco's outstretched, grubby palm.

Tilting the ring upward to catch the light of the torches, Draco watched it gleam, and smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite being lit by torchlight, the bathroom was bright enough to make Draco blink and squint at the fierceness of the illumination. He was given a few seconds to examine his surroundings as Hermione bustled around the room, fiddling with things, turning on a faucet--_Yes, a faucet,_ his mind told him. Everything was...clean. Cleaner than it had been inside the gaolers' offices, and Draco had thought that was miraculous, at least. He was almost afraid to touch anything. The names of things he was seeing floated to the top of his consciousness: sink, bathtub, towels, towel-rack, soap...Draco thought for a moment where these names could be coming from, but a spike of pain drove itself through his head. Squeezing his eyes shut hard, he almost didn't hear Hermione speak.

"Draco? You all right?" Forcing his eyes to open, he saw Hermione regarding him, concerned, closer than she had been when he shut his eyes. Draco bared his teeth in a smile as he had once before, and Hermione looked relieved. Then, after thinking for a minute, she asked, gesturing around the room, "Do you know what sort of a room this is? What these things are?"

"'T's a bathroom," said Draco automatically, and found something in him rebelling against her tone. "Bathtub, towel, sink, soap, mirror." He pointed to each in turn, and then told her, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "I know."

Eyes widening, Hermione responded, "All right. Do you think you can bathe yourself?"

Draco gave this some consideration, then nodded.

"All right," said Hermione again. "Then I'm going to leave you to do that, okay?" Draco tensed on the word 'leave.'

"Come back?" he inquired.

"Of course." Smiling a soft smile, Hermione went to the door and was gone.

Turning back to the bathroom slowly, Draco wondered about what to do first. The bath was slowly filling up, and the--

_The mirror._

When had Draco last seen a mirror? _No. Don't think about it._ That had certainly happened before Hell, but Draco didn't know where he'd been before Hell.

Wherever he'd been, he hadn't looked like this.

Thin, thin, thin. He was like a coatrack for the filthiest coat in the world. Sure, his face had been filled with corners before--_When?_--but it had never been like _this._ Now the corners had _edges._ And his hair was...not even _like_ hair. Hermione's hair...you could see, if you looked closely, where one strand ended and another began. Draco's hair was--matted. _Understatement,_ Draco told himself. There was no one word to describe Draco's hair. Gnarled, crusted. Of no determinate color. It hung down nearly to his shoulders. And his eyes...

Draco stared at his own eyes for what seemed like forever. Pale grey, clear, dull. They frightened him. Finally, shuddering, he turned and faced the task at hand.

His movements came automatically, removing his tattered, stained robe and underclothes. The faucet handle was turned to off, and Draco slipped into his bath, filling the quiet room with the sound of sloshing.

Amazing. That much dirt. And he hadn't even started washing yet.

Soap came first, he knew that. Wash everywhere. Ha. It took Draco longer than he'd thought possible, scrubbing his right arm, to glimpse the skin beneath. By the time he'd finished clearing his body almost entirely of grime, the water was so filthy that he lost the sliver of soap he'd had left. Plus, the water was cold. He had to drain the bath, rinse out the basin, and run a full tub of water again.

There was a full bottle of shampoo resting on the lip of the bathtub. By the time Draco was through with it, there was a mere quarter inch of the stuff resting at the bottom of the container.

The towels were black. Good. Draco didn't want to know what he had missed.

It was almost-neatly dressed in a plain black t-shirt, trousers, and socks, that Draco made his way back over to the mirror. He was uncomfortable in the new clothes--his old robes had grown to be a sort of second skin to him. These new garments, instead of hanging off of him, flopping when he moved, seemed to cling more accurately to his movements. It would take some getting used to.

Draco gawked when he saw his reflection.

Oh-so-pale skin. His hair seemed to glimmer in places, but it was still the same tangled mess. And he was standing up straight.

_Straight._ Like he belonged where he stood.

Reaching up to his chin, Draco felt the bare flesh there. That was odd, a part of him said. Should be something there...

Hermione had said she'd come back. When? Hoping to go and search for her, Draco paced to the door, grasped the doorknob, and turned, and pushed, and-- The door didn't open.

* * *

Hermione had _not_ been trained for this sort of thing.

Of course, she hadn't been trained for the war at _all,_ but that wasn't the point.

The point was...Hermione paced her new quarters agitatedly. The point was, _why_ was she here?

All right, so Ron and Harry trusted her judgement, like always, and, all right, Draco was scared as all hell of anyone besides her and would, therefore, not respond well to treatment if she shouldn't accompany him, but...

But she had _not_ been _trained_ for this!

Psychoanalysis was supposed to be left to the psychoanalysts, and, yet, when she'd checked herself and Draco in to the Sanctuary, the woman had just assumed that Hermione'd know what she was doing.

What _was_ she doing?

Well, whatever it was, the Sanctuary was the place to do it. The resistance to Lord Voldemort's reign--still known as the Order of the Phoenix, despite having lost many of its original members--owned several of these safehouses throughout the country. Unplottable and carefully protected against Muggle invasion, each one had a name such as the Sanctuary, or the Retreat, or the Refuge. Through unspoken agreement throughout the Order, none was to be known as the Asylum.

Those rescued and hoping for peace were undeniably safe here, though probably a little bit bored. They weren't often allowed out, after all, at least not to civilization. The grounds around the house--a mansion, really--were free for people to wander through. The Muggle guise of a private hospital allowed for quite a few things, such as the delivery of supplies, food, and even a few books, provided they had to do with only Muggle things such as...

Psychology!

While heading directly for the small library the Sanctuary kept, Hermione pulled a two-colored token from her pocket. No, no sign from Draco yet. The token was charmed to respond when the patient in the bathroom touched the doorknob. Hermione surmised that the token wouldn't light up for quite awhile.

In fact, it didn't light up until an hour and a half later, dragging Hermione's attention away from _Highly Abused Patients_ and to the fact that there was one highly abused patient, under her care, who was finally done with his bath.

* * *

So that was how it was then. Fooled. By Hermione, no less. Wounded to the core, Draco retreated to the back corner of the bathroom and sank to the floor. At least the prison was clean this time. And he could keep it clean. He'd seen things for cleaning in the supply cabinet where he'd found his clothes.

Draco had tasted freedom for a very short time.

Too bad he hadn't thought to run when he'd had the chance.

Maybe he'd at least be left alone this time.

Lifting the ring he'd received, on its chain around his neck, Draco watched his new torchlight reflect off the silver.

* * *

After dropping a few select books off at her room, Hermione hastened back down to the bathroom in which she'd left Draco. Just to be sure she wasn't intruding, she knocked before entering. When there was no response, she thought, _There are anti-suicide charms in there, aren't there, _and then was ashamed of herself for even thinking that Draco would attempt suicide. Pushing the door open, she tentatively stepped halfway through the door and called out, "Draco?"

In an instant, Hermione's hands were caught up in his, she was fully inside the room, and she was faced with the sight of a truly shaken-looking, though clean, Draco.

Wow. And she'd thought he'd looked shaken before.

He managed to hold her hands tightly and stare her in the eye for a full second before bursting into tears.

And Hermione managed to resist for a full second--according to the psychology books in which she'd been absorbed, it was a bad idea--before pulling the poor man into a hug.

Draco's arms wrapped around her middle, and his face pressed into her shoulder. The scent of soap filled Hermione's nose as she rubbed his back. Draco didn't stay in this position for long, shuddering slowing quickly, and bent over as he was. Pulling him gently away from herself, Hermione carefully searched his features with her eyes, then drew a bundle of tissues from her pocket and gently mopped the tears from his tired face. Finally, she asked, "Draco, what's the matter?"

_Keep things simple,_ the book had read. _Never attach any blame to your words._

Draco enfolded her in another hug, a proper one this time, before answering hoarsely, just above her ear: "You came back. I thought I was back."

Hermione thought she might cry, herself.

* * *

Next stop was an examination room. Hermione knew that she'd never be able to master this part in a mere hour and a half, no matter how hard she studied, so she asked the resident Mediwitch to meet them there. That was how she found herself stunned, standing in front of the very same woman who had checked them into the Sanctuary. Graced with medium-length auburn hair, an oval-shaped faced, and bright brown eyes, she gave them a winning smile. Sticking her hand out for Hermione to shake, she said, "Afternoon. M'name's 'Tilda Berks, Hermione, sorry we didn't get properly introduced earlier, I could tell you were both a little shellshocked." After shaking Hermione's hand the entire time she was speaking, she turned to Draco and held out her hand once again. "Hello, Draco. Y'okay?" To Hermione's amazement, she didn't even falter when Draco failed to shake her hand, merely dropped her arm to her side and continued grinning. "I suppose you'll be needing a quick exam? Lunch is almost over, y'know."

"Ah, yes," acknowledged Hermione. "Just a once-over should do it, I think. I sincerely doubt he's had any long-term spells cast on him." _Say something,_ Hermione willed at Draco. It was odd to talk about him as if he wasn't there.

"Right," said Tilda brightly, and began to pull out her wand.

"Wait!" cried Hermione. Putting a calming hand on Draco's arm, she looked him in the eye and said, "She's going to take out her wand." He tensed, seemingly ready to dive behind her for protection. "But it's all right. She's just going to make sure you don't have any lingering magic around you."

Draco paused for a long, long moment, thinking. Then, as if he would be punished if he were noticed, he seized Hermione's hand, and, biting his lower lip, nodded to show he was ready.

For the second time in under a half-hour, Hermione felt that she could cry. She gripped his thin hand as tightly as she dared. "All right," she said to Tilda. "Whenever you're ready."

It turned out that Tilda was all business when she needed to be, her grin dropping into a look of concentration as she--more slowly than before--drew out her wand. The procedure was pretty straightforward: Tilda said an incantation and ran her wand through the air in front of Draco, then the air behind him.

Hermione felt Draco's grasp on her hand tighten while Tilda did her job, but once she'd finished, their hands remained clasped. Hermione decided not to bring this up.

"Well, you got off lucky," said Tilda to Draco brightly, all smiles again. "Only two long-term spells. One's for keeping your teeth clean, th'other's for keeping your whiskers clean-shaven."

"Oh," Hermione heard Draco say quietly. He had an indecipherable expression on his face.

"Thank you very much," said Hermione. "We'll just be heading for a haircut, now." Draco shot her what she took as a curious glance. "And then lunch."

"You'll have missed it, by then," Tilda said. "Though I suppose you could just throw something together in the kitchen."

The three of them passed into the hallway. While Draco peered off curiously in the other direction, hand still gripping Hermione's, Hermione's attention was drawn to their suddenly-grinning Mediwitch.

"Interesting technique, Miss Psychologist," said Tilda in a stage whisper, grinning even wider than she had before.

"Oh, I told you before, I'm not--" started Hermione, but Tilda had already winked and capered off down the hallway.


End file.
